Somewhere Over the Rainbow
by T0PH4T
Summary: For all the help he received, Jaune was still in danger of failing. So Glynda did as a good teacher does and called him in for extra lessons.
1. September Showers 1

There are some things that simply cannot be borne. Among them is bringing live Grimm into a classroom.

"Peter," I ask quietly, menace oozing from every syllable as I slowly stir my tea, "Why did you use a Borbatusk to supplement to your lesson plans? More specifically, why did I learn of this supplement from a student several months after the fact rather than from you?"

His mustache twitches near-imperceptibly. For all his posturing, Peter's an easy read, and he's quite aware of it. To draw attention away from the fact, he blusters and exaggerates, hiding a tree within a forest. After no small amount of effort I have become fluent enough to know his feelings in broad strokes, even if the subtly escapes me. For example, while I know the last rustle of grey lip hairs speaks of embarrassment, I don't know if it's the childish feeling of getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar or professional discomfort. Peter clears his throat once before sitting up in his chair and trying to justify himself

"With all due respect Glynda, while testing our students in the classroom is all well and good, such a task is a far cry from recalling such information in the midst of battle. In order to ensure that the material had been fully understood I sought out a practical exercise that would test their knowledge." He nods once, chins jiggling slightly.

"We have missions for that," I say evenly, narrowing my eyes and taking another sip of my tea. Oobleck recently found the blend and frankly I've taken a liking to it. That may be the only reason why I haven't thrown it at Peter. "No, I think you brought a Borbatusk into your lecture because you didn't want your students getting too bored and couldn't think of another way to engage them." Somehow Peter has yet to pick up even the most basic of presentation skills, converting his otherwise fascinating anecdotes into dull bragging. Diligent students pass his class, but he relies on shock and awe to cover his weak points. Which would be fine if he _just filled out the paperwork_.

Peter flinches at the insult and places a hand over his heart. "Glynda, you wound me! Would I, Peter Port, _ever_ willingly deceive you?" He sounds genuinely hurt, which means that he's almost certainly joking.

"Yes, yes you would," I respond instantly, maintaining my own unamused visage to signal that this isn't a small thing. Peter falls silent in turn and adopts a sober expression. After a moment of staring at one another I turn away and pinch the bridge of my nose in exasperation.

"Peter, I'm bringing this up because it would be very, very easy for a Grimm of _any_ type to damage the school, regardless of whether or not there is an experienced Huntsman overseeing it." A hoof at the wrong angle, a caught tusk, any number of seemingly tiny accidents could cause hundreds, if not thousands, of lien in property damage. More if Peter misses with that scattergun of his. "If you want to bring more Grimm into the school, go through the proper channels."

I remember being astounded that there even _was_ a procedure for trafficking Grimm, and being even more astounded when I actually found it filled out on my desk. Peter clearly knows what to do, but for some reason he skipped that step this time.

The man himself nods once, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling in a way that means honest regret.

"In the future, I will. I promise." At that I relax, letting out a small breath and softening my own expression. Peter's many things, among them a man of his word. If he says that he'll fill out the appropriate forms, I can expect it done in triplicate from this moment forward.

"It turned out alright this time, but what if it hadn't? The Borbatsuk could've charged faster than you could shoot. _Then_ where would it have ended up? Would it have hit a wall? A student? Someone could've been hurt," I explain. I hold up my hand to forestall Peter's protest. "I know you wouldn't have let it happen, but let us remember just how suicidal your average student is." It is frankly unbelievable what I discover some of my charges doing. Peter nods in sympathy before starting up again.

"In my defense, I was planning on sending you an incident report," he says. I raise a single eyebrow. Peter spread his hands in indignation. "I was! I just never found a time where you weren't..." he trails off and I roll my eyes.

"Up to my eyeballs in paperwork?" I ask rhetorically. Peter shrugs apologetically.

"I didn't want to put another form on your pile," he says, meeting my gaze. I snort. One more form would hardly matter. "When was the last time you had a day off, lass?" he asks. "When did you last take some time to simply sit back and relax somewhere warm and sunny?" I shake my head and drink more her tea.

"I don't remember," I answer honestly, casting back my memory and trying to think of a single incidence in the past five years. It wasn't like I've never had the opportunity to take a vacation. Beacon is a good employer, and Ozpin offers me enough paid leave to go galavanting for a week every semester if I want to.

I sigh. It's never a problem of my ability to step away from my job. It's always a matter of finding something else to do.

I like wine, but not in a way that lent itself to extended recreation. Through that path lies the life of a lush. I enjoy reading, but not enough to lose myself in a novel for hours on end. It's too passive. Most sports pale in comparison to a good spar, and finding a worthwhile partner that won't go off on a mission within three days is frankly impossible.

It's not that I _can't_ take time off. It's just that whenever I try to, my thoughts drift back to ungraded assignments, potential lesson plans, ways to get ahead of the next rash of paperwork, accounting that needs another eye on it, and soon enough I'm back behind a desk, working unpaid overtime, at which point I go back to billing my hours and accepting that I have once again failed to take a break.

Thirty three and already married to my job. What would Mom say?

"Well, if you want to talk about anything, Barty and I are always ready to listen!" Port say, jolting me out of her daze. Presentation skills aside, the man does have a voice made for announcment. He stands up from his chair and inclines his head. "I'll have a report filled out by tomorrow morning, along with some requests for live demonstrations." I make a mental note to renew our insurance and nod back before draining the rest of my tea. I really do need to get Oobleck to make me a list of the blends he stocks. The man has a way with caffeinated beverages that borders on the magical.

"I should get going as well." I check the clock on the wall. "I have a class in twenty minutes." Combat with the first years. The least balanced group of students I have, complete with more than a few... problematic ones. Wonderful. I stand up and toss the empty cup into a wastebasket, nudging it with my Semblance when it tries to bounce off the rim and onto the carpet. "It's been a pleasure, Peter."

"Likewise," he replies, walking out the door of the lounge and holding it open. I follow a look down on him as I pass, a small smirk on my face.

"Ever the gentleman," I say, a fond sarcasm in my voice. It's the little things he does that let me put up with his antics. That, and lack of former Huntsmen willing to teach a horde of teenagers how to kill a King Taiju using nothing but a railway spike.

"But of course," he says with mock formality. "One always opens doors for beautiful women." The twinkle in his eye betrays the platonic nature of the compliment and he nods politely as he steps away from the door. "I wish you an excellent day, Professor Goodwitch," he finishes before turning down the hallway and walking off, whistling tunelessly. I watch him until he disappears around a corner. Once I'm sure he's gone, I turn the other direction and begin my own walk to class, adopting a much more familiar near-glare to convince students to stay out of my way.

That. That is the other problem with taking time off.

Peter is fifty six and happily married, and for all his talk he's quite monogamous. I've met his wife Sherry during a faculty dinner and she's a lovely woman, if a bit louder than I would normally put up with. Oobleck is in his sixties and shows no signs of settling down, nor of wanting to. More to the point, he's more manic than a squirrel on methamphetamine. Ozpin is Ozpin, which means I know more than nothing and less than I want to. The rest of the staff are women.

In the space I frequent most, there is not a single person who would make for a good romantic partner.

I scowl harder and a second year pales as I stomp by him. The vicious satisfaction doesn't drown out the frustration.

I'm not actively searching for a special someone. Empty beds haven't felt awkward for years, less now than ever. It's the lack of opportunity that twists the knife. What _if_ I want to flirt? To tease? Beyond the more biological part of enjoying a partner, it would be nice to have someone closer to my own age to talk to. Peter and Oobleck are interesting enough, but they were raised by veterans of the Great War. I don't always see eye-to-eye on things with them, and our interests vary enough that every attempt at small talk eventually circles back around to work.

I stop just before the double doors that lead into arena one and take a moment to center myself. Emotions at the door, focus on the students. They may be fools, but it's my job to _un_ -fool them.

I step into the classroom.

* * *

I've gotten better since the start of the year. I mean, all my friends can still kick me around like a football and I wouldn't like my odds against anyone who actually knows what they're doing, but "worst in Beacon" is still pretty good compared to your average person.

On the other hand, Beacon's not filled with average persons.

Cardin's mace flickers out, way faster than such a big mass of metal had any right to be, and I barely get my shield up in time. Instead of knocking me out of the ring, it slides up and out, exposing his side.

See, this is where Pyrrha would stab into his ribs, or Ren would close in and start cutting, or Nora would just straight-up _smash_ him out of the ring. Cardin makes a lot of mistakes, and my teammates are good enough to capitalize on them.

Me? I'm too busy trying to stay standing.

Then the mace comes around again and I'm back to blocking. One from the right I have to duck under that I can _hear_ , a backhand from the left I lean back to avoid, barely keeping my balance, and then he goes for an overhead.

Gotcha.

I "suddenly" regain my footing and dash forwards. Cardin's face shows surprise for one glorious second before I slam the edge of my shield into his nose. He goes staggering back and I try to capitalize. Jab, cut, duck a wild swing, jab again, keep cutting and don't sto-

When the stars stop dancing across my vision I see Cardin walking over, a murderous expression on his face. Nope. I slap the ground three times.

"I forfeit!" I shout, not bothering to try and hide the desperation in my voice. Better embarrassed than concussed. For a second, Cardin hesitates, as if he's seriously considering getting in one last blow. The a buzzer sounds and I hear the click-clack of heels string across stone.

"Do you require assistance standing, Mr. Arc?" Professor Goodwitch asks, glaring at Cardin. He backs off and I feel a rush of relief. Thank you Goodwitch, may your cereal boxes always contain rare items.

"Nah, just a little woozy," I say, getting my hands under me and pushing myself up to standing. I rest on my knees for a moment while the floaty feeling fades away. I'm not sure how I feel about getting used to picking myself up. On the plus side, it means I'm getting better at taking a beating. On the down side, I really shouldn't be losing _every_ time. Once I feel more stable, I stand back up, retrieve Coreca Mors, and move next to Cardin for Professor Goodwitch's post-mortem.

"Mr. Winchester, your arrogance could have been your downfall. Again," she adds, and Cardin snorts but doesn't backchat her. "While you have the capability to deliver excellent strikes, you should not do so at the expense of your defense. Though Mr. Arc was unable to fully capitalize on it, a more competent individual would have you on the ground in moments." I wince at the backhanded insult. On the one hand, yeah, she's right. On the other hand, did she really need to spell it out like that?

"Feh," Cardin says dismissively and I feel a quick jab of anger. I _did_ get him at the end there. He doesn't take it any further though, and Goodwitch turns to me. I steel myself and prepare for the criticism.

"While you've improved considerably, your form is still extremely weak. You miss chances to deliver damage and commit too hard to the opportunities you do take, especially considering your defensive fighting style." I keep my mask on as the words rain down and accept it. It's nothing I haven't heard before, but unlike the beating it doesn't feel like I'm getting better with time. Professor Goodwitch moves on, barely looking at the two of us as she resets the stadium for the next combatants. "Additionally, while I applaud your feint for its effectiveness, one should not _have_ to take such measures against an opponent as sloppy as Mr. Winchester." I feel a tiny flare of pride at the praise and not a little more satisfaction as Cardin scowls. Yeah, you gearhead, you feel that? That's how it feels to get played by a guy with C's in all his classes.

"Mr. Winchester, I would advise you to spar against your teammates with a focus on not getting hit at all. After a few weeks, we'll see if any of it sinks in." Cardin doesn't seem happy, but he does nod and step away from the podium. Professor Goodwitch looks up for a moment at me. "Mr. Arc, see me after class." I feel dread grow in my stomach but nod. Welp, looks like the team-bonding session just got delayed.

"Thank you, Professor Goodwitch," I say, managing to to stammer as I walk back to the stands, wincing at the strain in my arms from blocking all of Cardin's hits. Gonna feel _that_ in the morning.

I easy down onto the bench and grimace as my butt hits the cold metal. Shortly thereafter I feel Pyrrha's hand between my shoulder blades, rubbing small circles.

"Thanks Pyr," I say, looking to side and giving her a smile. She smiles back.

"That last string of attacks was quite impressive," Pyrrha says and I feel my smile grow wooden.

"Still didn't actually win," I mutter, looking back towards the ring. I'm improving, yeah, but improving isn't a "w." It's not being on the same level as all my teammates.

"Mistral was not built in a day," Pyrrha says, hand rubbing a little harder into my back. I tighten my smile and look to the ring. As Professor Goodwitch calls up Ruby and some guy with a pair of short, broad-bladed spears. I lean forward and focus on the fight.

I know that I'm getting better. These days I can actually hurt Cardin before he knocks me out. I know that Pyrrha's just trying to help. Why else would she spend her nights training me? Knowing stuff isn't the problem.

Well, it kinda is.

Ruby's spar is insane. She's running around like crazy, but the other guy is teleporting between his weapons. They're using the whole ring, moving fast enough that I can barely keep up, making contact for maybe half a second at a time before disengaging and trying to reengage on their own terms. Two speed-type fighters going all-out is a hell of a show.

I can't win a fight versus Ruby. She'll just run away and shoot me until I'm out of Aura. Pyrrha could just disarm her, but even without her Semblance she could probably corner Ruby and out-fight her. Her opponent though, him I could maybe beat. Grab one of his spears, threaten to throw it out, force a teleport, grab his other one and make him come to me. Tricky, but not impossible.

I sigh as I see Ruby land a solid hit. It's easy to think that. On the other hand, when I try to go out and do it, I'm just not fast enough. Or strong enough. Or good enough at all, really. Back before Forever Fall I could never figure out how I kept getting my butt handed to me by everybody else.

Now?

Now I know it's because I really am the worst.

Ruby's opponent wins after putting her in some weird sort of arm-bar with one of his spears and Professor Goodwitch dismisses the class. When Pyrrha and the other head towards the door I wave them off.

"Professor Goodwitch wanted to see me," I explain. "Don't worry, I'll catch up."

Pyrrha looks a little confused but Ren and Nora drag her along.

"Come on, Renny promised to make dinner tonight so we wouldn't get sick of cafeteria food!" Nora says loudly, grabbing Pyrrha's arm and stomping forward.

"I did no such thing," Ren says calmly, trailing her. Pyrrha sends back one last nervous smile as she disappears through the double doors. I look after them as the leave, then turn and walk over to Goodwitch, palming my sword hilt nervously. She looks me up and down for a moment, appraising, and I plant my feet a little more firmly.

"Uh, why'd you call me after class?" I ask. I think about adding ma'am, but it'd be a little weird. Fortunately Goodwitch doesn't seem to mind and starts talking.

"You're in danger of failing," she says bluntly. My heart sinks. "While there does have to a person who has the lowest skill in every group of students, they typically tend to win at least one of their bouts," she continues, harsh and honest. I bite down the defensive retort and let it out as a breath. Calm down, Jaune, if she was going to fail you she'd say it straight.

"You've shown remarkable improvement, but even if you keep it up I'm afraid that you will not meet the minimum standards I enforce. In order to give you the best chance at actually passing, I am extending an offer of tutoring sessions. Should you agree, we would convene here three times a week with your partner. I would supervise your spar and provide additional instruction."

I blink.

"Um. What?"

Goodwitch raises an eyebrow. "I find it hard to believe that you did not understand what I just said." I wave my hands in front of me, a flush rising to my face.

"No no, I understood what you said. I mean, uh," I scratch the back of my head with one hand and look off to the side, thinking about how to phrase it, "that seems like a lot of extra work, and I'm pretty sure I'm not your favorite student. I mean, Pyrrha probably is," I add, "But why help me?"

"I don't have a favorite student," Goodwitch says coldly and I wince. Ouch. Not a good start. "On the other hand, you are one of my students, period. Is it so strange that wish you not to fail?" She phrases it like a question, but it comes out more like a command and I make a nervous sound of agreement. I mean, who you put it like that of course she'd help. It's just that the glare of death kind of overrides most logical thinking. "More than that, you appear to be trying to improve yourself, which is more than I can say for some. Thus, if I make the offer you will likely stick with it, making my time well-spent. Now then, will you accept?" she asks, folding her arms. I open my mouth to answer, then hesitate.

Personal sessions with the combat instructor of Beacon. I'd be out of my mind not to leap at the opportunity. On the other hand, that would also mean more time with Pyrrha. More time being knocked around. More time being constantly reminded just how big the gap is. More time putting on a plastic smile so she doesn't feel bad and pull her punches out of pity.

I don't want to pass this up, but I also don't want to feel like I'm trying to win a race on a treadmill.

"I'd love to," I start, fumbling for words that don't make me sound like a jerk before thinking _screw it_ , "But does it have to be Pyrrha and I?"

Goodwitch stops typing and looks up, a neutral expression on her face. "Why do you ask?"

I rub my arm self-consciously. Here we go. "Pyrrha's been training me outside of classes, and I, uh." I pause and grit my teeth. This is going to sound pathetic. "I always lose." Yup, sounds like something a loser would say.

Goodwitch rolls her eyes. "And? Do you expect to win against me?" I shake my head firmly.

"Nope, not in a million years. But you're a teacher. It's kinda your job to be able to kick our butts." She doesn't stop me, so I keep going, trying to explain the bitterness. "It's more like... Pyrrha and I spar. A lot. And I never win, even though she's going easy on me. And I know it's because she's good and I'm bad, she's been training for a long time and worked really hard and she deserves all of her badassery. But when your partner, who you know for a fact has nothing but love for you, and has been nothing but helpful, beats you into the ground over and over and _over_ again..." I feel myself getting angry and force my hands to unclench and close my eyes. In. Out. Calm. I let out a breath. Then I open my eyes.

"I just don't think that losing to the same person for an extra hour every day is going to help." There. Simple. I grit my teeth and wait for a telling-off.

It doesn't come. Goodwitch stays silent and flicks her tablet a few more times. Then she looks at me.

"One on one it is. Ms. Nikos likely does not need the additional training." Relief, then guilt, run through me in turn and I nod silently. Yay. I won.

Goodwitch adjust her glass once more and turns away from me.

"I would recommend talking to your partner about your feelings at some point. If you need help, Beacon's therapist has drop-in hours between four and six," she calls back. "I will see you on Wednesday."

I watch her leave, a complicated feeling in my gut. Well, I got what I wanted. For better or for worse. My scroll buzzes and I check it. Pyrrha, wondering how much longer I'll be.

I send back a quick reassurance and head to the changing rooms, trying to think of a way to tell her that I'll be missing Wednesday's practice.


	2. September Showers 2

"And you're sure that she wouldn't let me join you?" Pyrrha asks, staring at me. I keep forgetting just how green her eyes are until she's looking at me. It's not weird or anything, but it always makes me think she knows something embarrassing. That, and it makes her a little scary sometimes.

"I'm pretty sure yeah. She talked a bit about how one-on-one stuff is better than group activity if the skill gap is really large and, uh," — I gesture at myself — "Yeah. Don't think it gets much bigger than this." I'm not lying. I'm not being completely forthcoming and it twists my gut to say it, but I am telling the truth. Goodwitch said that these sessions are for my benefit, and I don't think having Pyrrha around would provide much help.

I'll make it up to her. Somehow.

"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Pyrrha says, breaking eye contact and turning back to her book. "Be sure to get something to eat after you're done." I heave a mental sigh of relief and head out the door.

"Gotcha Pyr. See you later!" I say, adding in cheer I don't really feel as I turn my head to wave behind me. Ren nods back and Nora smiles broadly.

"Break a leg!" she says as the door closes. I shake my head and walk towards the sparring rings, this time smiling a little more genuinely. The three of them are awesome. There might be better words for it, but that one fits. They're always willing to help out, whether it's with a receptive ear or extra training sessions or just breaking the tension with a laugh. Without them, I'd probably have flunked out in the first month of classes.

I mean, that's kinda the problem, but it's not their fault. I'm just trying to deal with it.

Once I get to the ring, I switch out of my uniform and into my combat outfit. I mean, it's still just shoes, jeans, and a hoodie, but since it's a Huntsman wearing it it's a combat outfit. Then I go through my pre-fight checklist. Straps tight? Check. Shoes tied? Yup. Stretched out? Still don't get why it matters, but yeah. Crocea Mors ready? I draw it and take a few practice swings. Well, it's not that flashy but it's a thing. I take a moment to look at the sword and smile. Swinging it around outside of a fight is a bad habit, and Pyr's drilled the importance of treating dangerous weapons like, y'know, dangerous weapons into my head a million times, but I can't help it. This is a sword doesn't have the same weight as actually using it, and I'm at Beacon isn't the same as landing a blow in a spar or killing Grimm. It's proof the I made it, that I actually belong here.

Then I remember why I need these extra sessions, and the illusion shatters. I let out a sigh. I'm going to need a serious psyching up.

I check my scroll. Still early. Good. Don't want to be late for the first session. I sheath my sword, then head out into the ring and scan the place. Completely empty, which isn't that surprising. There are other practice rooms, and Goodwitch probably used her privileges as teacher to reserve this one. Also, sparring in the sun is way more fun than whacking away at each other inside. I hear a door open and turn towards the ringside entrance to the women's locker rooms. It's Goodwitch, but...

"Is there a problem, Mr. Arc?" she asks, arching an eyebrow. I shake my head furiously.

"No, no, nothing like that. It's just," I fumble for words, then motion towards her. "You look different."

"I should hope so," she says, adjusting the massive two-handed sword that's resting on her shoulders, like she just rolls up next to her students with a completely new weapon every day of the week. "If I didn't, I might have to start worrying about the state of your eyesight." She's also not in a skirt and heels anymore. Now it's just some yoga pants and a poofy white shirt, barefoot. Once I realize what I'm basically checking out the legs on my combat teacher I tear my gaze away.

Down, Jaune! You grapple with Pyrrha all the time and it isn't weird!

"Uh, why the change?" I ask. Goodwitch rolls her eyes and steps into the ring. She's still taller than me, but not by a lot.

"Mr. Arc, I typically fight with my Semblance. If sparring with Miss Nikos isn't going to help you, simply being knocked out of the ring by a piece of debris certainly won't." Right. I feel my face flush. "As you do not have a ranged option, the primary area of concern for you appears to be melee skill. In order to facilitate that, I intend to assault you with a variety of weapons until you can adapt to any fighting style. Today, that means a longsword," she finishes, unsheathing the blade and twirling it twice before falling into a stance with one leg forward, the sword resting diagonally on top of it. "Now, attack me."

Well, if that's what she wants...

I draw Crocea Mors slowly, deploy the shield, and turtle up. I haven't ever seen Professor Goodwitch use a weapon other than her crop, but she's probably used to teaching a lot of different people a lot of different things. If she's not better with that sword than every student here, I'll eat my shoes.

I move closer, slowly circling. She adjusts her stance to keep facing me, impassive.

Okay, so that's not going to work. Time for a different approach.

I feint a little, swiping at the air a mile away from her, and she doesn't respond. Worth a shot. Welp, time for glory.

I take three steps forward and go for a slash at her head, down and to the right. She moves into it, does something complicated involving the hilt of her sword, my shield, and suddenly my arm's at a very painful angle.

"Since you lacked the element of surprise, you tried several different approaches. A commendable choice on your part," Goodwitch says conversationally. Her sword is also held across my throat and I try to breath more shallowly. "When it comes to application, your actual strike was pedestrian. I understand that you don't want to commit to blows against a superior opponent, but if you don't place some sort of pressure on me, I'll just counter-charge you like this." She holds me there for a moment and I keep gritting my teeth against the pain. I think she's forgotten that she has me in an arm bar. "Are you listening to me?" she asks.

"Different approaches good, lack of commitment bad," I whisper. "Now can I have my arm back?" She releases me and I stumble away, working my shoulder and elbow. It kinda feels like the time Pyrrha showed me joint locks, but a million times less gentle.

Good. It means I know where I stand.

I turn around and fall back into my usual stance. Glynda's holding her sword over the shoulder this time, eyes focused on my center of mass.

"Again."

After that the tone was set for the... spar? Tutoring session? One-sided beating? Whatever it is, we get into a routine pretty quick. I go after her, she beats me into the ground, tells me what I did wrong, and lets me try to fix it. When I mess up on the same thing twice, she goes after me and shows me how it's done. Once I recover from whatever injury she almost makes serious, I try again.

And again.

And again.

At some point after I get knocked to the ground by a stab to the stomach ("When your opponent outranges you, never retreat."), Goodwitch checks her watch, then walks off the stage. I groan and lever myself up as she sheathes her sword.

"It appears that our time is up for the day," she says, shouldering the weapon, now slightly less dangerous. I don't think she's even started sweating. "I commend you on your fortitude and ability to take both abuse and criticism. It does you credit."

"Thanks?" I say, not sure how to take that. I think it was a compliment?

"On the other hand, once a week sessions are more appropriate for students working on an extra credit project. For building competency, I would like us to meet no fewer than three times a week. Now that you know what these sessions look like, can you manage them on Saturday mornings and Monday afternoons as well?"

I think about it. Pyrrha's training sessions are on weekdays, but sacrificing two of them for Glynda's lessons is one hundred percent worth it. When we do stuff on weekends, it's usually in the afternoon, so giving up the morning means missing the occasional team-bonding brunch. Sucks, but, again, worth it.

"I can make it work," I answer, collapsing my shield and sheathing my own sword. I'm going to be sore in the morning, but at the end I could feel myself understanding the fight, not just trying to stay alive. "Thanks again, Professor Goodwitch," I say, walking over to her and extending my hand. She looks at the hand for a second, then back at me. I keep the smile on my face, even if it feels weird. She shakes my hand, hesitantly, then nods back.

"We will resume on Saturday, then," she finishes, walking off to the women's locker rooms. I watch her for about a second before I realize what I'm doing and shake my head.

Time to shower off and head back to the dorm. Maybe grab dinner from the cafeteria if they're still serving good food.

I wonder what the daily special is?

* * *

I strip off my active wear and change back into work clothes. I don't particularly mind the pencil skirt and heels, but it's nice to get a little more physical from time to time. I sigh as a voice in my head that sounds disturbingly like Peter makes an off-color comment about getting "physical" with a student. Please. If all it took was a Huntsman's physique and a reasonably attractive face to tempt me, I'd have been dragged in front of a review board well before now. No, there's something about fighting, about more intimate teaching, that's satisfying on a personal level. I've looked after children from time to time, and I can confidently say it's not maternal instinct. I certainly enjoyed the clash of steel on steel more than grading student essays.

I take a moment to groan and rub my temples. One would think that Beacon's academic standards would mean that everyone would know how to construct a sentence, or run a basic analysis of Dust. One would that think that, and one would be wrong. I still run into basic spelling and grammar errors, and all the students turn in their assignments through their lapscrolls, all of which have basic writing programs that can correct the most abhorrent errors in minutes.

I put back on my teacher mask and head out into the corridor, towards my office. Towards those terrible essays and elementary errors in basic mathematics.

I let out an internal sigh. Then I run through the list of reasons why, despite the tiny aggravations, Bart's coffee addiction (not too strong a word), Peter's lapses in common sense (though they're frequent enough that I have to wonder whether he's deliberately baiting me sometimes), and Ozpin's... eccentricities, that I still love what I do.

The star students. I didn't lie when I told Jaune I have no favorites. Such a thing would be unprofessional and violate the basic principle of teaching. On the other hand, when you do find someone who approaches problems from a completely unexpected angle, who masters the fundamentals so perfectly that you have to encourage them to break the rules, or is otherwise simply head and shoulders above their peers, it is gratifying beyond words to hone their skills.

Moral obligation. Could I, perhaps, have a more enjoyable job killing Grimm out somewhere on the frontier? Perhaps. Would that do as much good? Certainly not. Any number of people can pick up a sword and stick the sharp end inside of a Beowolf, while far fewer can show someone how to do so properly. On my own I could perhaps defend a town. In an institution of learning, I can train hundreds of others to do the same. Addition versus multiplication. A simple comparison, and one that comes down firmly on the side of teaching.

My friends. Is the term presumptuous? Perhaps, but I do not believe that one can work alongside a group of talented individuals towards the same goal and be only coworkers by the end of it. Bart goes out of his way to keep us all caffeinated, Port is a veritable font of anecdotes and surprisingly helpful ideas, Peach handles far more work than the rest of us put together, and Kitsune is...

Well, Kitsune patches up the students well enough, the nature of her method aside.

Half of us have fought together, and the other half have suffered through the misery of students, which is battle enough. These are some of the few people who I can truly relate to, and that alone would be worth any number of terrible essays.

If only they weren't all either too old or women!

I keep the scowl on my face from deepening until I get to my office. Then I let loose a snarl and being putting together a pot of tea. Again! Again it comes back to the lack in an aspect of my life. Hardly a new occurrence, and no less irritating for it! No one knows why there are so many more women than men in the Hunter schools, but the skewed ratio is a fact, and those lucky enough to secure a partner in the same line of work guard them more jealously than any amount of wealth. Divorces are rare, and being a rebound is distasteful for a number of reasons.

I glare at the kettle as it burbles along, absentmindedly flicking paperwork into stacks based on priority. Student assignments, then finances, then requests from other teachers. I preemptively stamp Peter's requests for more live Grimm. A man of his word indeed, and one who will not repeat his mistakes twice. Then I float over a third year's paper on low-lethality measures against criminals without Aura and begin grading.

Working with the written word is an acquired skill. This goes for both reading and writing, and in order to edit something one must be at least a level above the writer in question. When I began teaching, I barely outstripped the students. Every day was a day of learning, of reconsidering how I would approach my own work. Every night was a struggle to keep ahead of the my pupils, assisted by criminal misuse of highly caffeinated tea. Now? I tear through the submitted schoolwork in less than two hours. Considering the volume of work and the depth of my revisions, it should be a triumph. Instead it leaves me unsatisfied. I've seen the arguments before, and even when they're well executed it's rarely anything more than a brief consideration.

The kettle whistles, hot enough to circulate the flavor of the leaves but not so hot as to roast them. I pour myself a cup, savor the scent, and sip away, eyeing the financial forms resting on top of my desk. Generally speaking, Ozpin handles the most complicated paperwork, but even he has to sleep. So the slush gets offloaded to me, the only other person with remotely similar amounts of authority. Most of it could conceivably be kicked down to a secretary or someone of similar position, but just because something can happen does not mean it should. The year I tried such a system of casual inspection of forms "approved" by the temporary employee revealed no fewer than seven egregious lapses in judgement, along with a general lack of critical thought and basic bureaucratic skill. Should a more capable individual magically appear on the Beacon payroll, I will pursue their services. Until then, I am stuck working perhaps the least satisfying job available to me for no less than an hour a day.

When I snap, the first thing to go will be the fax machine.

I finish my cup of tea and resign myself to another exceedingly banal afternoon.

XXX

Once the last of the financial forms is filled out (with only one terrifying arithmetic mistake to break the monotony) I pack up my lapscroll, weapon, and a few requests from the faculty. Work never ends, and I've found that considering my colleagues' requests at the end of the night helps me keep a finger on the pulse of the school.

The cafeteria has been closed for some time by the time I get there, so I simply grab some noodles, sauce, onions, and beef. Simple fare, but it's fast and low-effort for the amount of pleasure it generates.

Once I'm back in my quarters I kick off the heels, let down my hair, and put on some music. Electric strings, drums, and piano notes fill the apartment and I feel a small smile slide across my face. The nicer speakers were a non-trivial expense, but worth it. That, and the sound-proofed walls. I let the sound run through me as I prepare dinner and the day's worries fall away. Old habits die hard, and one of the first habit I developed was never bringing business to the dinner table. Grandma hammered it into Mother, Mother enforced it with Father, and I appear to have picked it up as well. No matter how much work is left at the end of the day, violating the sanctity of the meal with something as dull as a job typically got met by glares and gentle swats to the back of the head. Even if I could squeak out a few more billable minutes, time spent enjoying good food and better music is never wasted.

Once the washing up is done (another habit, this time picked up from years of solitary living and a desire for cleanliness) I switch the music to a playlist, head into my bedroom, and pull a novel off the bed stand. It's nothing literary, not in the way that Philip Wreath or Garnet Machado earn the title, but nor is it precisely pulp. A story of swords and sorcery, which understands where it stands and simply tries to do the best it can within the niche it's carved free. Are there better stories? Perhaps. Ones where the effort comes through so clearly, so earnestly? Where they embrace both the limits and the strengths of their chosen medium and genre?

I turn the page, entranced.

Doubtful.


	3. September Showers 3

"Ugh," I groan, dropping my head to my desk with a resounding _thunk_. "Are your sure Oobleck didn't accidentally add a zero when he said ten thousand words?" Seriously, that's like... thirty five pages of writing. On a Monday, due at the end of the year, which is _not_ far enough away to for me to feel comfortable doing anything other than starting immediately.

And now I'm regretting that decision.

"It is supposed to be a group project," Ren says, voice coming in clear over the sound of turning pages and scribbling pencils. "And if there is a missing zero, it's because he wanted us to write one hundred thousand words instead." I grimace against the table. Yeah, that sounds about right. With a sigh and push myself up to sitting and get back to work.

When I first heard about group papers I laughed. I mean, how do you split up the act of _writing a paper_? Take turns at the keyboard? Even if you could, what was stopping the try-hard in the group from doing everything themselves? It just seemed like a bad idea through and through. Then Pyrrha, Ren and Nora started talking about who would do what, where to look in the library, possible hypotheses, and I had to call a timeout and remind them (again) that I didn't know anything. Once they remembered _that_ I learned why my worries didn't matter.

First, because the try-hards all know the cost of sending someone into the field unprepared. That lesson gets hammered in pretty hard during the first year of the academies through a number of practical exercise that my teammates don't want to talk about, and after that there isn't really a problem with freeloaders. Heck, Pyrrha's never gone too far with her help, even when it's clear she really, _really_ wants to just do my work for me.

That... doesn't mean she doesn't try to give a little too much advice sometimes.

The other part of making group projects work is that the professors literally assign so much stuff that we really do need everyone pulling their weight. I mean, ten thousand words? _What the heck_? How do you even talk about internal uprisings and revolutions in Vacuo for ten thousand words? Sure, the place has been in basically constant turmoil since just after the great war, but it's too big of a subject. You might as well ask about the history of the Schnee Dust Company.

Ugh, not productive. If Oobleck didn't define the goals of the project, that's probably because he wanted us to come up with something on our own. Anyway, it's not my problem and I need to get back to work on the problems that _are_ mine.

I tear out the sheet of doodles from my notebook, ball it up, and toss it towards a waste basket. Ren and the others are checking out sources, trying to connect this stuff to work that other Huntsmen before us have done. Since I can't tell the difference between a journal article and a particularly well-researched blog post, we've collectively decided to split up the labor so that the people who actually know what to look for will do most of the planning stuff and I'll do the bulk of the writing.

I sigh and restart my sketch of an outline. Intro yes, conclusion yes, those do have to go somewhere. But what about the body of the paper? The actual point? Asking good questions is always a pain and a half, and it always takes way too long to come up with something halfway decent. I mean, it was never a problem in school. Always managed to get a passing grade, plus a little more to keep Mom and Dad happy.

On the other hand, I can't just scrape by anymore. Pyrrha wants to excel and Ren and Nora don't deserve to have their grades tanked because I don't care. So now it's time to simplify a complex topic into something that I can actually write about.

Man, I wished I payed more attention in language arts.

After half an hour of beating my head against the metaphorical wall of blank paper, I have something _close_ to a coherent plan. It's not pretty and it doesn't cite anything, but by this time tomorrow I should be drowning in secondary literature annotated by my teammates. Give the titles and abstracts a quick read through, then fill out the rest. Still won't be pretty after that, but then I can start writing the damn thing and work to make it better.

I close the binder for oobleck's class and take a moment to stretch. Then I put it away and take out the binder for Grimm Studies. No rest for the wicked, and his snooze-inducing lectures aside Port's class is the most interesting. I mean, Huntsmen and Grimm? The connection isn't hard to see. That and a lot of his stuff is just memorization. It's kind of nice to be able to relax and just do some flash cards.

Ugh. Now I'm looking to flash cards for relaxation. What has my life come to?

"Hello, Jaune," Pyrrha says from somewhere behind me. Right. Partner. I smile ruefully and turn to face her, even as I start shuffling the index cards. She's smiles back and tucks a stack of papers under her arm, offering a small wave. "Done already?"

"I'm as done as I'm going to get," I joke, throwing a wave back as I shift to a one-handed triple-cut shuffle. Flashy? Yeah, but it's an excuse to use those old magic tricks again. "How about you?" She shrugs.

"I managed to find a few things," she replies nonchalantly, motioning to the papers under her arm. "Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to-"

" _I'll never be your, beast of burden!"_

Godsdammit, scroll! I start scrambling for it, even as Pyrrha blinks in surprise.

" _My back is broad, but it's a-hurtin'! All I want is for you to make love-"_

"That's mine!" I interrupt, finally managing to slide the 'shut up' button on it before the song can go on any longer. What was it even...

Aw heck.

"I was wondering if you wanted to study together?" Pyrrha says, sliding into the seat next to me with a smile. I shake my head, even as I pack away the flash cards and stand up. Bad timing.

"Sorry Pyr, Goodwitch again," I say, walking backwards with hands held up in a sort of 'what can you do?' motion. Pyrrha frowns.

"Didn't you meet her on Saturday as well?" she asks, and I wince. Yes, I did meet with her... five minutes late. I thought that getting there showered and caffeinated would make up for being a little late.

I was wrong.

"She wants to meet three times a week," I say. "And the next meeting is in fifteen minutes, so..." I point to my wrist and jerk my head towards the door. Pyrrha nods, even as she puts on that plastic smile that tells me I screwed something up. I make a promise to myself to ask her about it some time soon. It's a little hypocritical for me to be prying, but I'll be damned if my team gets hurt because we can't talk to each other.

That's for later, though. I spin around and start running, risking a smile as the hallways _fly_ past me. Now I get to _learn_.

* * *

A professor of Beacon academy has certain standards they must uphold. They must be composed at all times, achieve a level of excellence in their activities that conveys competence, and maintain the image of capability and stoicism in the face of any and all challenges they may face in the course of their duties. It is hard, but perfectly possible.

Fortunately, I don't have to bother managing myself in my office.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong," I mutter, crossing red exes through a series of multiple choice questions about Huntsman law. "And not even the good kind wrong," I add, chewing on the end of the drawstring on my hoodie. Ah, the wonders of working at home. You can say precisely what you feel without fear of accidentally destroying a young girl's dreams _and_ wear sweatpants without shattering the illusion of indomitable discipline instilled in one's students. "Mister Golden will be spending some time in detention I see." A flick of my hand and her name joins the depressingly long list of fourth-years who will be joining me for remedial lessons before finals week. Gods forbid these poor souls should go into their penultimate exams thinking that _this_ is an acceptable level of knowledge.

Once the test receives its final pen stroke (a green one, thankfully), I toss it onto the pile of 'finished' work and stretch, taking a moment to appreciate just how wonderful the loosening my muscles feels. Could I have avoided such stiffness by attending to my duties behind a desk with a proper chair? Perhaps. Would it be as satisfying at the end? Certainly not.

I reach for another stack of forms and start scanning through them. Bart's asking for field trips. Optimistic fool. How many destroyed archaeological sites will it take for him to learn that the majority of Beacon students are more likely to _annihilate_ evidence of ancient civilizations than discover them? Nonetheless, I being to leaf through it-

" _I met a girl, I met a girl, on a Holiday."_

I check the caller ID and groan before answering.

"What is it this time, Bart?" I ask, shimmying out of the sweats and calling my work clothes to me. Then I check the time, send them back, and summon up my sparring uniform. I suspect it's going to be one of _those_ incidents.

"Well you see, Professor Goodwitch" — if he's using my title it's worse than I thought — "I was attempting to assist a group of students with a makeup lab and I'm afraid things have gotten quite out of hand," he says and I feel my heart sink. There is such thing as a trivial accident with Dust. Such things occur only when dealing with relatively small samples though, which are primarily found in primary combat schools and civilian laboratories.

Here? Any incident that warrants my attention has the destruction of a classroom as the _best_ -case scenario.

"Give me estimates on amount, elements involved, and your initial assessment," I demand, closing the last of the buttons on my shirt and slipping into a pair of combat boots. "I'll be on-site shortly." Oobleck knows Dust as well as any professional Huntsman, but there's a difference between hard-won practical knowledge that tells you how to craft your own munitions in the wild and the academic sort that prevents accidental EMP's from sending a city back into the dark ages. The latter is unlikely, but possible, which is why Oobleck's decision to call me was _absolutely correct_.

"Red and brown Dust, thirty six ounces of the former and sixty ounces of the latter," Oobleck rattles off. In the background I here panicked muttering and a steady stream of profanity. "Currently, it appears as if there is a pool of lava melting through the floor, including substances that _should not melt_."

"I don't suppose it's cooling down as it goes?" I ask, shielding my mouth with a hand as I sprint as quickly as my legs can carry me. "And there's no substantial increase of temperature around it?" The few students still in the halls jumping out of the way with wide eyes and open mouths. Few of them consciously recognize just how _fast_ professional Huntsmen can move when they are so motivated, even when they themselves can reach such a speed in combat. Mundane utility that Oobleck strives to teach his students in all of his lectures, but a pearl that such swine rarely pick up.

"I lack a device with which to measure its temperature but no, that does not appear to be the case," he says. I manage to suppress a groan. If **only** it could be as simple as cooling it down. "Additionally, the patch appears to be growing."

"Perpetually-heated stone," I say, eyeing the rapidly-approaching building. There's a shell of students around it, but they're already making a path for me. He kept the children safe. Good. "Lava with a half-life of several million years, but it also transmits relatively little heat compared to its natural counterpart."

"Which in turn makes it of marginal use when compared to something like spark Dust," Oobleck adds. I can already imagine the lines of thought running through his head, but by now I'm running through the front doors, up the stairs, and _there's_ Bart, his thermos waving from side to side as he sprays the occasional burning object with ice. "Again, I'm terribly sorry for this-"

"Thank me by taking the students responsible to task," I interrupt, walking past him and flicking my crop twice. The first gesture clears the steam out of the way, and the second picks up the hazardous waste in a telekinetic field. "They will be the ones responsible for neutralizing this mess." Until then I'll have to keep it floating in a zero-gravity environment, well away from anything it would destroy. For that I'll need more gravity Dust, which needs to be billed to the school through forms-

"While the poetic nature of your punishment deserves recognition, I regret to inform you that this is _my_ error," Oobleck says. I pause to stare at him, crop still leveled at the blob of lava. "I was setting up materials with which to run the lab, took a sip of my beverage" — he shakes his thermos once — "and accidentally knocked over two vials. I will, of course, be willing to assist you in-"

"No," I say, cutting him off as I pinch the bridge of my nose. "It's... acceptable," I squeeze out, suppressing half a hundred other words. "I can create the counter-agent more quickly on my own, and while it may be valuable for you to learn such a thing, the disciplinary aspect would be lost." I being to walk away, the sample floating after me. The discipline would lost on him, yes, but the catharsis it could offer _me_ would be nothing short of divine.

"In the interest of preserving the illusion of equally distributed labor, might I take over some of your grading?" he presses, walking up next to me. I sigh.

"I would appreciate that," I say. Say what you will about Bart, he tries to right any wrong he sees, including his own. We both know that figuring out how to solve the problem of physics-breaking molten stone will be far more engaging than checking boxes, but the finance forms that will pay for the reconstruction of the laboratory can only be filled out by me or Ozpin. "That will have to wait for later. Once this is somewhere safe, I have a student to get to." If I run again I can probably make it to the ring on-time.

"I wasn't aware there was a student who had crossed you," Oobleck comments as we speed up. "Might I inquire as to what precisely they are responsible for that requires your particular attention?" I sigh in resignation. Is my reputation really such that any student I spend time with must necessarily be in trouble?

"In the interest of preserving the illusion of my perpetual bad mood, I will withhold the details for now," I answer, throwing Oobleck's words back at him and drawing a smile from the man. "Now then, if you would be so kind as to prepare a containment field?" Students scatter before the two of us as we close in on the weapons storage building and Oobleck nods once.

"I'll have it done before you get there," he says, peeling away from me as he pours on the speed. I take a moment to check my scroll. Plenty of time left. Now, what weapon to bring to training?

* * *

"That's... not a sword," I say stupidly as Goodwitch swings around the flail a few times, chains clinking and the flanged head whistling. She quirks an eyebrow at me and I immediately realize just how ridiculous my words really were.

"Yes, but can you tell me what it actually is? What new factors you'll have to consider when you face it? How you'll have to change your fighting style? Go," she finishes, letting it drop to her side, the end resting lightly against the ground as she looks at me expectantly. I blink, then get my head in gear and start talking.

"Well, it doesn't have the same reach as the longsword, so I don't have to worry about retreating _as_ much. It's going to hit a lot harder though, so more dodging and less blocking. Don't want to be knocked over if I can't angle my shield right." I get enough of that in class against Cardin. "Practically? I should focus on waiting for you to over commit to a swing, then rush you. More moving around and less trying to press into your space." She stares at me for a moment longer. What could she- Oh, right! "And it's a flail," I add lamely.

"Half marks," she says impassively and I wince. Ouch. "What's the advantage of a flail over, say, a mace?" she ask, lifting her weapon until it's parallel to the floor, the head hanging down off nearly a foot of chain. I fall into a fighting stance, even as my mind races. Come on, think back to the early part of the year!

"Well, the chain means it's more flexible?" I try. Goodwitch rolls her eyes and _that's fast back up back up back up!_ I manage to step away in time to avoid the sudden strike at my head, but I'm off-balance enough that I have to throw my shield up to try and block the follow-up overhead, try being the operative word. Instead of the slightly-numbing jarring sensation that I'm used to though, I feel a slight pressure on the side of the edge of the shield and _ouch my arm!_ My hand spasms and I nearly lose my grip on my shield, falling to my knee with a hiss. What was _that_?

"The advantage of the flail is that it can go _around_ blocks," Goodwitch says, spinning the weapon fast enough to whistle. "Against a mace, blocking is inadvisable. Against a skilled flail user, it is _near-impossible_." She extends a hand down and I grab it gratefully. She hauls be up to standing before taking a few steps back and letting the flail fall back to her side, eyes meeting mine. "Again."

I learn a _lot_ about how flails work over the course of the next hour. I learn how the can wrap around limbs as a sort of grapple, how having a free hand gives the wielder all _sorts_ of fun opportunities for hand-to-hand strikes, how a minute shift in the grip on the weapon can completely change the angle of an attack, how trying to get fancy by striking at the chain just leads to a swift disarmament and jab to the solar plexus from the pommel...

And also how much they can _hurt_.

For the first fifteen minutes I'm hopelessly lost. I've never actually fought anyone with such an unpredictable weapon and I _almost_ call uncle. Then I managed to get my shield in the right place by accident and completely _stop_ the head for long enough to throw a clumsy cut at Goodwitch. Then I manage a few more lucky blocks. Then they're not so lucky anymore and I _almost see it_ -

Goodwitch steps around a stab, into my space, bashes my shield wide with the haft of the flail, and _slams_ her open palm into my jaw. I go stumbling back, barelystaying upright, and then she sweeps out from under me with a kick to the side of the knee. I get my shield up in front of my face in anticipation of the finishing blow...

Which doesn't come? I lower my shield and look up at Goodwitch, who nods once.

"Better," she says, extending her hand down once more. I take it and she pulls me up, yet again. There's an old saying about it not mattering how many times you fall down, so long as you get back up again. I wonder if there's an analog for knocking someone down, but helping them get back up? Probably not. "You've adapted gamely to the shift in weaponry. I suggest incorporating a shifting arsenal into your sessions with Miss Nikos as well." I nod back, suppressing an internal grimace. Yay, getting my butt handed to me by Pyrrha with a poleaxe as well as a sword and shield. That should be fun.

"Um, how would we go about getting loaner weapons?" I ask, sheathing Crocea Mors and rubbing my shoulder where a particularly hard blow landed earlier in the spar. Again, going to be _sore_ tonight. "Is there a form we have to fill out or...?"

"It would likely be easiest for the two of you to simply shift your choice of venue," Goodwitch says, gesturing around at the ring. "While students are not permitted to access the weapon storehouse directly, we do keep a rotating supply of temporary equipment that can be accessed upon request. They don't leave the building though," she adds, shooting me a look. "That decision was made after a student tried to make an axe/sword/spear/hammer/sword mechashift weapon by smuggling them out using the excuse 'group bonding'," she says and I tilt my head.

"Did you say sword-"

"Twice," she interrupts and I can almost _hear_ her teeth grinding. "Needless to say, they were sufficiently chastised after the incident, but the rule remains in place." She sighs and her eyes soften. "She has since learned to make a living off of her mischief. Last time I checked, she's employed as a weaponsmith in Vacuo, happily married." I blink.

"You keep track of your old students?" I ask. I mean, I knew a few teachers who did that in middle school, but for the most part, they were pretty apathetic. Goodwitch shrugs.

"I look at casualty reports for all of them, but I only really stay in touch with a few," she says casually. "Primarily the ones who go into teaching themselves, but there were also a few that were so much trouble that I couldn't help but remember their names." I chuckle a little at that and I swear I can see the corner of Goodwitch's mouth move up. When I look for it again though she's back to her polite-but-strict default.

We stand there for a moment, sort of enjoying the silence, meeting one another's eyes.

Then it goes on for a moment too long and it's awkward again. Damn it, why does this always happen? I reach up and scratch the back of my head, breaking eye contact.

"So... Wednesday?" I ask. She nods.

"I will see you then," she replies, turning around and head for the women's locker room. I turn as well, teeing up my list of responsibilities. Reading through Pyrrha's compiled papers, fleshing out the outline, Port's flashcards, maybe make headway into the backlog of books my transcripts _say_ I've read...

I let out a breath and walk off. Somehow, it doesn't seem _quite_ as daunting as it did two hours ago.

* * *

As I get back into my sweats, I take another look at the stacks of paperwork in front of me and briefly imagine throwing it all into the shredder. Then common sense reasserts itself, and I plop back down on the couch, shoulders already slumping. Ah, the joys of employment. Back to where I started at the beginning of the day, albeit with slightly smaller piles. Some of that is due to no small effort on my part, part of it is due to sending the completed tests back to their takers, and most of it is the result of Oobleck's visit, expressing just how thankful he is to have someone with an intimate understanding of Dust on hand to correct his mistake.

The stack of tea tins and bottle of rather expensive wine now resting on the island in my kitchen may also be a part of that apology.

I fix myself a pot without moving and examine the next pile of work. First-year essays. Wonderful. That means in addition to the basic spelling and grammar errors, I _also_ get to put up with writing that has yet to mature. I could just start tearing into them, highlighting the weakest parts of their argument, show them _precisely_ where they went astray and the painfully easy corrections that would save them from a failing grade...

But that wouldn't help, anymore than beating Jaune into the ground over and over again would improve his skill.

I sigh and pick up the first paper, scanning the first paragraph for a thesis, hoping against hope to find something interesting. Feeding him an easy blow, aiming for his shield rather than his skull, could've backfired, made him too confident in his own skill. If I had tried it with a more arrogant student, it likely would have.

Instead, it gave him enough of a boost to start learning how to act on his own. A piece of the puzzle, then let him figure the rest out on his own. Sometimes those little nudges are all a student needs to get on the right track.

I shake my head. No clear statement of what the paper is about. I'm familiar enough with poor writing to understand the concept of what Mr. Thrush was going for, but the language is too confused to get his point across clearly.

Time to try and nudge him in the right direction.

I don't hold back my language. Garbage diction, poor sentence structure, and misuse of commas still receive my full ire. For the ideas though, I leave questions. I press the writer to come up with deeper explanations for their ideas, to figure out a more perfect structure for their argument. If their core argument is fundamentally flawed, I leave nothing more than a large red 'X' on the page. Those papers will require complete rewrites. They are few and far between though, and I'm pleasantly surprised when I finish scrawling notes on the last paper and find that barely an hour has passed.

Time truly does fly when one's work is worthwhile.

I place the lot of work in the out box by the door and begin dinner. This is the calm before the storm. Students are gearing for the exams just around the corner, and us professors will refrain from assuming excess work in the interest of letting them study, which incidentally leaves us with far more free time than the rest of the year. When those tests come in though, each and every professor will be up to their ears in corrections and grading. Notes will have to be sent to fourth years in danger of failing, first years will learn that being a big fish in a small pond in no way prepares you for your first 'C', and there will be nary an unclaimed caffeinated beverage in all of Beacon. Meanwhile, the majority of the students will have vacated the premises, ready to let all the information they had crammed into their skull drain away over the break.

It's amusing in a way. When the students stress, the professors relax. When the students relax, the professors stress. I'm sure Kitsune will begin handing out her study aids soon, and I'm equally sure those foolish enough to accept them will see their productivity skyrocket once the burning sensation in their mouth dies down. Nonetheless, even the most devoted academics rarely go back for a second dose.

Once the soup is set to simmering I retrieve the novel from my bedside and return to the story. Halfway through the book and I can already see the ending, a story with roots tracing back to the very beginnings of my experience as a reader. I still suspend my disbelief though, still gaze in wonder at the heroic moments and sudden reversals of fortune. Why? Because sometimes my expectations _are_ subverted. Sometimes there is an author who _does_ do something completely new, something so totally novel that I cannot help but be awestruck. That, and even if the story never deviates, even if it ends exactly the way I expect it to...

I can hardly say that it wasn't an enjoyable ride.


	4. September Showers 4

Shield charge, forward stab, shoulder charge, shield swipe, all fast and hard enough to crack the skull of a Beowulf. I dodge, deflect, block, and dodge again, savoring the variety of attacks Jaune brings to bear. A dramatic change from how he was at the beginning of the semester, or even just a few weeks ago. Certainly he's learned to use the width of metal on his arm for more than just defense, thought like any child with a new toy he has yet to learn how to use it _conservatively_.

The next time he goes for a shield charge, I meet him, flail circling around his obstructed vision to strike him in the back of the head. He falls onto my oncoming knee, head snapping back as a small gasp of pain escapes him. I let him fall to his knees, shield arm coming up to his face and grasping at his nose.

"While it's good to see you embracing the versatility of your toolset, remember that just because you _can_ do something doesn't mean you _should_. The shield is heavy, yes, but it is not primarily an offensive tool. Use it to supplement, not replace, your regular strikes." With this, he's almost caught up to an average student in a primary combat school. A few more months and he'll be a proper Huntsman-in-training.

That is, if he stays focused.

"Again," I say, lifting my weapon. That's enough to start the spar again and Jaune dashes forward, blade coming out in a short, vicious cut. I nod internally and play defense for a few moves, letting him find a reasonable balance between blocking and attacking with his shield. I can _tell_ him a ratio to use, but that would provide a needless anchor that could never be generalized. Best to let him figure out what makes the most sense. Such lessons stick the longest.

If only I could do something about his damnable stance!

I bat Jaune's latest stab aside with the back of my hand (one he _chose_ to overstep into) and whirl the head of the fail into his solar plexus, right beneath his armor. This time when he falls, I spin into his chest and shoulder throw him onto his back, eliciting a short hacking cough and his breath leaves him. He scrambles to get up, but I just shake my head and swing the flail over my shoulder, signaling an end to the round.

"You've fallen back into your bad posture," I say, less angry and more disappointed. He had been making progress, and plenty of it. "I do not tell you to change your form because it is amusing, but because it prevents me from throwing you around like a toy. Using your body to swing your sword without leaning into it _is_ within your capabilities: why do you struggle?" It genuinely confuses me how a previously hale young man went from eager and adaptable to listless in the span of five days.

"Sorry, Goodwitch, I'll do better," Jaune says, face downcast and drawn. He stands up straight and takes a moment to center himself. As he does, I study him. His shoes are only knotted once, which wouldn't be odd if he hadn't made a point of tying them twice each and every other session. His blonde mop seems far more tusseld than usual, but he lacks the bruises at his neck or at his lips that would accompany the usual methods for achieving such a disheveled look. His eyes...

"Jaune, do you have bags under your eyes?" I ask, striding up to him and tilting his face into the light. A flush comes onto him as he begins to stammer, but I pay it no mind and look closely. They're slight, but they're there, a pair of dark arcs under each orb. That, and the eyes themselves are also bloodshot, the blue and red constrasing with one another in a way that I could find beautiful _if it didn't mean my student was destroying his body!_

"When did you stop sleeping?" I demand coldly, shifting his face so I can look him in the eye, hand on his cheek and leaving his jaw free.

"I didn't _stop_ sleeping," he says, batting my arm aside with a trace of sullenness I recognize from far too many other teenagers. "I just needed a few more hours in the day. I'm still getting rest, still staying awake in class-"

"And failing to truly learn the material because you gorge yourself without understanding, losing focus as your body slowly becomes more and more worn down, culminating in a failure of either the brain or muscles as your Aura finally runs out of raw material to rebuild your body and you collapse," I _rant_ , watching him shrink under every word. "Aura is not some sort of magical catch-all that will keep you running on fumes, and depriving yourself of sleep when you're putting on muscle and trying to develop new skills is an excellent way to destroy your ability to learn." I take a breath, then let it escape through my teeth. Enough venting. "Your grades can suffer. So can your combat skills. Both of those can be rebuilt with effort. Medical leave, however, takes substantially longer to recover from." I press a button on the flail, turning around and walking out of the ring. The chain retracts, the flanges on the head fold in, and soon enough the weapon appears to be nothing more than a metal stick. "This session is over."

There's a familiar rasp of steel on steel as Jaune sheaths his sword, followed by a short muttered phrase he probably doesn't think I can hear. No matter, it won't be the first time a student has cursed at me. Of late I've learned to ignore it. Best to let them blow off steam however they can, and when they're more level headed-

"I'm sorry."

I stop walking and turn my head, quirking an eyebrow. Jaune is standing there, hands at his side and a pained yet honest expression on his face. He swallows once and averts his gaze.

"There's a paper in Oobleck's class and I'm useless for researching," he says, holding himself still and keeping his voice even. "So I agreed to do the write up. Figured that was the most fair division of labor. I need to read all the manuscripts too, though, so I've had to cram as much as I can." He lets out a shuddering breath. "I'm trying to cover all the years I missed _while_ getting on the same level as my teammates _while_ trying to keep my grades up and _it's getting a little tricky_ ," he finished, a tiny note of hysteria creeping in his voice. "So I skip a few hours of sleep to try and make it all work and if I can't do that I don't know _what_ to do." He looks up, eyes tight and desperate. "I'm sorry, but I _need_ more time."

In that moment, I recognize the anger.

He's mad at himself.

Well.

 _That_ is unexpected.

"Is that it?" I ask. He blinks and his face drops from self-loathing to surprise. "Is that the sum total of your assignments so far?" I clarify, mind whirling. Hmm. I haven't had to work with a student that complained about overload recently, but I still remember the methods for handling it.

"Yeah," he says, eyeing me warily. " _Just_ three classes and three different training sessions," he says. I let the sarcasm go and rub my chin thoughtfully. His sessions with Miss Nikos, with me, and whatever additional studying he's doing to turn his transcripts into a genuine representation of his skill. Assuming that each is as intensive as an actual course, he _should_ have enough time in the week, even allowing for leisure activity.

I suppose he has yet to realize that one needs to work _smart_ as well as hard.

"Do you have a prior appointment on Sunday afternoon?" I ask. His eyes unfocus for a moment, presumably reviewing his schedule, and then he shakes his head.

"Uh, no, why?" he replies. I nod and smack my palm with the collapsed flail. Excellent.

"Meet me at my office at three o'clock in the afternoon," I say. When his eyes go wide with surprise, I wave a hand dismissively. "You are hardly the first student to be overwhelmed by a flood of material, and you will certainly not be the last." Every semester it seems that there's a third- or fourth-year whose eyes are bigger than their stomach, and while some prefer Bart's method of dealing with an excess of labor, most simply do not have a strong enough heart to survive that much caffeine. "For now write up a comprehensive list of all your work and your methods for completing it." If he's anything like past examples I'll be spending half my time breaking bad habits.

"Y-yes ma'am," he says, still a little shocked. After a moment, he sets his jaw and nods. "Thank you, Professor Goodwitch," he says, this time more confidently. "I'll see you tomorrow." With that he turns on his heel and marches towards the men's room, standing a little straighter than before. I indulge in a small smile before heading to change myself. All of the students assume that their challenges are unique, and that they alone have to face their trials. Few bother to ask around, and fewer still stop in on office hours to discuss their issues. Provide them with permission to fail though, and they will be more than willing to take advantage of every opportunity you can give them.

* * *

Okay, so I've got the list, the next three books I want to read outside of class, the first _third_ of the rough draft of Oobleck's paper (not due for another three weeks and the research is already done but _argh_ it still doesn't feel like enough time!), and enough pencils to kill a Beowulf. Don't _think_ I'm forgetting anything else- scroll! Right, need that to get back into the room. I slide the small device into my pocket, zip up the backpack, and hum contentedly. There, preparations done. I check the time on my scroll. Done early, even. Still, better get moving.

"Heading out, guys," I call to the room. Ren lifts his head from his book for long enough to nod politely while Nora twists in her seat to face me.

"Where are you going?" she asks, leaning back on two legs of her chair. "Got a hot date?" she jokes, a smile spreading across her face. I laugh and shake my head. As if.

"Nah. Goodwitch said she'd give me some help with school stuff," I answer, slinging my bag over my shoulder and walking over to the door, pausing in the entryway. "Anyone need me to grab something while I'm out?" Ren usually does the shopping, but I've made a habit of asking before I head out for a long period of time. No sense in people taking multiple trips.

"How long do you think you'll be gone?" Pyrrha asks from her corner of the room, not looking up from her desk. There's something in her tone, something I'll have to ask about later, but for now I just shrug. Better to put it off and do a good job when I have the time to dig into it rather than a rushed bad one.

"No idea," I say. "Could be thirty minutes, could be an hour. Why?" I see Nora and Ren exchange looks out of the corner of my eye. Something big then.

"I was wondering if the two of us could head out later tonight," she says lightly. I shrug.

"I don't see why not," I say. "What time were you thinking?" Early means heading into Vale, which might not be the best idea on a Sunday. On the other hand, late means cafeteria, in which case why would she be asking? Not like there's another place to eat on campus.

"Around five thirty," she says. The weird thing in her voice is gone, replaced by happiness. Crisis averted. I smile and nod.

"See you then," I say, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind me. Then I let out a breath and start walking, playing back the conversation in my head.

Managing the team... it's hard. Part of that is because I'm so far behind them on every conceivable level, and part of it is because I'm not good enough at reading them yet. Ren and Nora seem to have a whole nonverbal _language_ that no one else gets, I still don't completely know what'll accidentally send Pyrrha into her 'public face' mode, and I need to be more in-tune with my team in general. We've been together long enough that I can generally know when things are happening and why they happen, but they can still keep secrets from me.

I snort. Turnabout is fair play, I guess.

I don't want to pry. I don't think whatever they're hiding is going to be anywhere near as bad as faked transcripts, and since that turned out alright I think I can let it go. Still going to have to figure out why they think they need to hide it from me, but I also want to trust them. If it's a big deal, I'll let them tell me rather than stick my nose where it doesn't belong.

Well, not unless I absolutely have to.

I nearly bump into a door and blink rapidly. Huh. I'm at Goodwitch's office already. Got a lot on my mind I guess. I reach up my knuckles, hesitate for a moment, then knock quietly three times. I know I'm expected, but there's something about being called to her office that's just scary.

"Enter," she says and I push open the door, taking in the room. It's more spartan than I imagined, with two of the three bookshelves completely empty bookshelves and lots of open space. The desk in front of her is big enough that I'd feel comfortable spreading three pieces of paper without overlapping them, but probably not four. I can make out a small kettle by the back window, with a small wooden box and two mugs next to it.

"Hello, Jaune," she says and I refocus on her. She's back in her usual outfit, scribbling away at a sheet of paper. "If you could take a seat I will be right with you."

"Sure," I say, grabbing a chair and pulling it up to the desk. Unlike the principal's office in middle school, these chairs are actually comfortable, and tall enough that I don't have to stretch my legs out too far in order to keep my feet flat on the ground. The pen in Goodwitch's hands makes a few final mark, then the paper gets thrown into a drawer and the pen goes into a cup and I find myself the subject of a startling green gaze.

"Show me your work," she says, her voice hard and firm, just like in the ring. I nod back and pull out my list.

"Here it is," I say, dropping the three sheets of note-covered paper onto her desk. "All the assignments Oobleck, Port, and you are giving out until the end of the year, plus a list of books I want to read, and when I want to have read them by." I'm pretty proud of that, actually. I mean, it's just a bunch of syllabi collated into one thing plus a reading list, but actually having it all on paper makes the problems seem so much more manageable. Goodwitch scans it for a moment before nodding her head.

"This appears to be a manageable amount of work. Tell me, how do you intend to read these books?" she asks, pointing to the list along the side.

"I read at the end of the day," I answer, clasping my hands and bouncing a knee up and down. I'm better at doing the school stuff than I was at the beginning of the year, but that doesn't mean I like it more than combat class. "Once things wind down for the night, I pull out whatever's at the top of the list and start slogging through it." The whole thing 'falling asleep reading a book' thing doesn't happen to me, but it's actually kind of relaxing to just sit back and chill.

"Have you tried an on/off schedule?" she asks. I blink, then shake my head.

"Never heard of it," I say honestly. She sighs.

"It's a method where one switches between reading and a variety of other tasks, with regular increments," she says, and I can practically _feel_ the disappointment rolling off of her. "While it is good that you actually _are_ reading, the shape of your schedule seems to show that you place it at the bottom of your priorities." I wince but don't contradict her. I mean, if I have to choose between turning in an assignment and finishing a book, the decision isn't hard.

"The problem with that approach is that it ignores the fact that _the books are the lesson_ ," she says, stressing the last few words and meeting my eyes, not glaring but... _intense_. "Reading is not a supplement to the lectures. It _is_ the lecture, presented in a different medium in an attempt to drive the knowledge home more cleanly and more completely. Try starting with twenty minute breaks during your projects." I suppress a sigh and nod.

"I'll start as soon as I can," I promise, already thinking about my schedule and trying to figure out how to incorporate this into it. Ren and Pyrrha tend to just plop down at a desk and grind through whatever they need to do. I don't want to interrupt them, so that means working on my own or with Nora. That's going to be an interesting change of pace.

"Turning to the projects themselves" — oh boy here we go — "I'm astounded that you can complete any of them," she says, rapping the paper twice with the back of her hand. "You've set yourself up to burn out more effectively than any other student I've ever met, and that includes Miss Schnee's initial academic plan." Wait, what about Weiss? "You must either be receive an incredible amount of assistance from your classmates or put in far more effort than is practical or intended."

"Try both," I joke. When she doesn't smile I shrug. "I'm three years behind. I didn't expect it to be easy." I also didn't expect to start losing sleep but I figured that was normal.

"It shouldn't be _impossible_ ," she retorts. "As is, you're in a situation where you're forced to remain focused on a monotonous task for hours on end, followed by sessions of intense physical activity to wipe you out, which you chase with _more monotonous labor_." She shakes her head. "Multiple methods may achieve the same goal, but some methods simply achieve that goal _better_." I bite down a defensive comment, take a breath, and process the information.

She's not attacking me. She's commenting on what I do, dispassionately, and saying that it's not ideal. It's a critique of the system, not the user.

Framing it like that helps. A little.

"What's a good method?" I ask, looking her in the eye. "I mean, how do I get better?" Goodwitch raises an eyebrow.

"Add leisure time," she says.

Ah, what?

I look at her in silence, jaw dropped, long enough for her to flare her nostrils in irritation.

"Do you know what one of the driving forces behind limiting the workday during the founding of Vale was, Jaune?" she asks commandingly, and reflexes born in Oobleck's class spring into motion.

"Grimm feed on negativity and the extended hours were leading to an increase in Grimm attacks, _sir_!" I say, getting out the last word before blushing and dropping my head into my hands. Damnit Jaune, wrong teacher!

"I see there's hope for you yet," Goodwitch says and I lift my head up. She's smirking, and with a wave of her hand she summons a book. _An Abridged History of Early Vale_. The text for Oobleck's class. "While that was one of the reasons for doing so, the frequency of Grimm attacks was theoretically manageable. This is a subject Oobleck and I disagree on, but I believe that a more important motivating factor was the quality of work obtained. Simply put, the second hour of work is never more productive than the first, the third never better than the second, so on and so forth." I nod along, trying to put the pieces together in my head. "By having craftsmen do subpar work on difficult-to-replace product like housing and roads, Vale could have inadvertently crippled it's infrastructure."

"Haste makes waste," I comment.

"Indeed," Goodwitch responds, opening up the book and flipping to a page near the end. "To his credit, Oobleck choose a volume that gives many possible explanations equal examination. Because he teaches Huntsmen, he may focus on the factors that apply to them, but that does not mean they're the _only_ factors. Now, why is that important?" she asks, snapping the book shut.

"I'm sorry?" I ask. What does she...?

"Why is it important for Huntsmen to know about more than just the factors that relate directly to their careers?" she asks, looking me in the eye and _not_ turning away. "Why is it important for you to know about the work habits of carpenters from hundreds of years ago?"

"When you put it like that..." I say nervously, wracking my brain for answers. Come on, think! "Well, some of their customs are applicable to-"

"Too literal," she says, cutting me off. "Think about the original question, _then_ try to answer it."

I bite back my next off-the-cuff response and look at the floor between my feet. The original question... Why is knowing about stuff outside of being a Huntsman important? I mean, clearly _it is_ , otherwise we'd just have combat class all day and drag around a bunch of lawyers to negotiate contracts for us. Practically, it makes us more self-sufficient, but that seems a little shallow. Why would knowing the cause-

"Because sometimes the Grimm might not be the problem," I say sitting back up with a jolt and slapping a fist into my hand. "I mean, if you send in a Huntsman to kill Grimm, that'll solve the problem then, but what if there's a well of negativity? You have to treat the source along with the symptoms."

Goodwitch smiles at me, bright and happy, and I feel a shiver of pleasure.

"And that is why we teach history," Goodwitch says. "Now, onto Grimm studies. How do you propose to prepare yourself for the final exam?"

* * *

We're in the middle of a discussion on the adoption of mechashift weaponry when Jaune's scroll goes off.

" _Lean on me, when you're not strong~_ "

"Sorry!" Jaune says, scrabbling at his pocket as a flush rises to his face. "I swear I put it on vibrate!" I raise an eyebrow as he finally pulls the device out and checks the caller ID, face falling. "It's my partner," he says apologetically, sending a pleading look my way. I wave magnanimously at him and nod.

"Go ahead," I say and he smiles gratefully, swiping it open and holding it up his ear.

"Hey Pyr, what's up?" While he talks with his partner I look to the clock and have to suppress my surprise. It's already near six.

When did I lose track of time?

"I'm _so_ sorry!" Jaune says, a note of panic seeping into his voice. "I totally lost track of time and I promise I'll make it up to you! Heading out now!" There's a pause, his face screwed up in worry as he starts piling papers into his folder with one hand. "No Pyr, it does matter. I said I'd do it and I didn't. That's on me, and I promise it won't happen again." Another pause as he shifts the scroll to his shoulder, shoving everything into his bag and zipping it shut. "Yes, I'm sure. See you soon," he finishes, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he gets up and looking at me. "I gotta go. I said I was going to meet my partner at five thirty for dinner and she's been waiting all this time and-"

"Jaune," I interrupt, raising a hand. "You had a prior arrangement that wasn't supposed to be impeded by this. It is fine for you to leave. By all means, attend to your team." I smile. "If you have more questions, I have office hours. Now go off and enjoy your date." If I had a lien for every partner pair that had ended up at least _trying_ to make a romantic relationship work, I'd buy another floating island and build my own school on top of it. Jaune laughs and shakes his head, stepping out the door.

"We're just partners," he says as the door closes.

I sit there in silence for a moment. Then I stand up, go to the table with the tea pot, and start brewing as I consider his words.

Miss Nikos trains Arc in her spare time. Certainly there are benefits to teaching those less skilled than one's self, but such benefits can be gained from a single night a week. Beyond that, the girl waited thirty minutes before she called. Why not do so after five? After ten? A hope, perhaps, that the desired is on the way. That, or a fear of seeming pushy, of seeming like too much work. Not motivations that a purely platonic partner would harbor.

I wait for the tea to brew as I step into the shoes of a much younger self. One who would see an attractive peer and be both afraid to approach and cautiously lustful. I take a moment to relive those years, with all the poor decisions, pressing yet inconsequential problems, and mindless joy. I remember looking at Drake as a potential lover for the first time, a too-serious boy that was the only one willing to match me hour for hour in the library and in the ring.

Then I overlay Jaune onto the memory, replacing quiet intensity with exuberant optimism, sharp green eyes for warm blue ones, and restless competition for affectionate nurturing.

I ask myself if a girl alone at the top would look at this boy and want to be more than partners.

The kettle whistles and I have my answer.


End file.
